


forever in my mind

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Lives, Angst, M/M, Marriage, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was going to marry him,” Stiles blurts out, the words spilling out of him like they’ve been caged up inside his chest all day, waiting for this chance to break free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forever in my mind

On June 26, 2015, Stiles wakes up to a hangover the size of Texas and no less than twenty-five facebook notifications. Most of them are from Allison and Lydia, though he notes that there are a few from Danny and Mason as well. Facebook is still going through that phase where it thinks he wants an email about every single one of his friend’s statuses, no matter how mundane, so Stiles groans, flings his phone down, and goes back to sleep.

When Stiles wakes up the second time, it’s with an urgent need to pee, a vague possibly-not urgent desire to vomit, and the impossibly loud sound of rain slapping against the window. His room is so dark that for a moment he thinks that he’s actually managed to sleep through the whole day, all the way up to the twilight hours. But no, his phone happily informs him via a too-bright screen that it’s actually a couple minutes before noon, which is probably not a good time for normal people to be waking up. Also, he has three more facebook notifications.

Blearily, Stiles ignores them, waddling into the bathroom so that he can take the longest piss of his life and hang his head between his knees until the urge to vomit passes.

It’s a Friday, which means that he has to be at Deaton’s for his weekly emissary-not-really-in-training-anymore lessons in roughly half an hour.

Which sucks, a lot. Irritated, he flicks on the coffee pot and goes to determine whether or not he actually needs a shower.

.

Deaton has a television in the lobby at the clinic, which has befuddled him before, because Deaton’s not usually one for unnecessary expenses. It’s a flat screen — though not a very big one — and is nestled into the corner of the clinic that’s housed the security camera ever since some big, bad, and ugly tried to break in and eat all the puppies.

The security camera was a necessary expense. The TV? Not so much. People have smartphones to keep them entertained now. Nobody needs a television to take their pet to the doctor.

He stumbles in five minutes late with a cup of coffee in his hand and his shirt on backwards. Deaton, unsurprised, just raises an eyebrow at him and goes to flip the sign to closed.

Stiles is in the middle of disentangling his rucksack from his shoulders when he spots the television, blinking at the huge rainbow flag taking up the majority of the screen.

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening as they take in the tagline at the bottom of the screen, right next to the CNN logo.

 **Same sex marriage legalized in all fifty states** , it cheerfully reads.

Oh, Stiles thinks, not prepared at all for the crushing surge of elation, relief, joy, and complete and utter _misery_ that sweeps over him.

And to think, he’d thought that today would be the day that he didn’t think about Derek at all.

.

Lydia drags Stiles out for drinks with Danny and Allison that night. He’d objected initially, because getting hammered two nights in a row was pretty bad, even for him, but nobody ever really said no to Lydia Martin.

It’s a good time, probably. The Jungle is overflowing — people yelling, shouting, kissing, grinding, celebrating — and Stiles dances a little, even ends up blowing some dude in the bathroom, because why not. This is a day for _celebration_ , right?

He feels utterly toxic, as if he’s sucking the life out of the party. Poisonous, down to his very core, so after he washes the taste of come out of his mouth, he goes and does a line of shots — every color of the rainbow, of course.

Stiles ends the night under Allison’s arm, worried murmuring in his ear as Allison manhandles him out of the car and up to… Scott’s front porch.

Scott answers the door in his pajamas, blinking bemusedly, a toothbrush sticking halfway out of his mouth.

“You need to take him,” Allison tells Scott immediately, grunting as Stiles sways them both into the side paneling, _hard_.

“Whoops,” Stiles says, and giggles.

“What happened?” Scott asks incredulously, and it’s kind of funny, the way they carefully don’t touch each other as they transfer Stiles over to Scott. Like Mommy dropping the kid off at Daddy’s place for the weekend.

“What else?” Allison sighs. “We went out, everything was good for awhile, and then he drank his body weight in tequila.”

Stiles wants to protest that it wasn’t _just_ tequila, but his head slams down onto Scott’s shoulder as Allison lets go of him. It’s pretty comfy there, so that’s where he stays.

“Okay,” Scott says, and Stiles just knows that he’s going for that earnest, not-awkward smile and totally failing at it. He wonders where the toothbrush went.

“Text me if anything goes wrong,” Allison calls, already bouncing back down the steps to where Lydia’s waiting in her prius. God, Stiles’ baby is still at the club, isn’t it? He’ll have to make it up to her later. Get her a nice good oil change, and maybe figure out what that rattling sound is.

Scott waits for Allison and Lydia to pull away before he turns away, shutting the door behind them. He starts the slow, painstaking process of getting Stiles to the couch.

“It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one still hung up on their ex,” Stiles tries to say, but thinks that it might come out unintelligible, or maybe only in bits and pieces, because Scott just plays along and nods, even though he clearly has no idea what Stiles is talking about.

Once Stiles is safely on the couch, Scott wanders into the kitchen. He comes back a million years later with a huge glass of water and a couple tiny pills, which are probably not the happy pills Stiles had snorted after his seventh shot back at the club.

“Hey,” Scott says, rubbing Stiles’ back with one hand and offering the glass with the other. His voice sounds like a marshmallow. All gooey and coaxing and nice. He sounds like Melissa does whenever Stiles ends up in the hospital.

“Hiiiiiiii,” Stiles goes, and blinks, going cross-eyed a little when Scott holds the pills up in front of his nose.

“I need you to take these, okay?” Scott coaxes, smiling widely when Stiles takes the pills from him and throws them back. The smile vanishes when Stiles sloshes half of its contents all over himself a moment later, but he can pretend that he didn’t see that. Scott’s a bro. Bro’s have faith in their friends abilities, even when they’re trashed.

“So,” Scott says, carefully passing Stiles another glass. “What brought this on? Thought you were past the drunken blackouts stage.”

Stiles blinks, turning away from Scott’s stupid, beseeching face. There’s a pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the living room and plates stacked on the coffee table. That probably means that Kira’s not back from Japan yet.

“I was going to marry him,” Stiles blurts out, the words spilling out of him like they’ve been caged up inside his chest all day, waiting for this chance to break free. It hurts worse now, since Stiles has been ignoring the ache for so long. The place that the words occupied feels like it’s been filled in with crushed glass.

“It was going to be perfect,” he whispers, groping in the pocket of his hoodie until he comes up with The Box.

Stiles hasn’t touched The Box for two years, and its acquired a fine film of dust over the lid that Stiles can’t seem to brush away. It clings to the crushed velvet like spiderwebs. Tonight though, he couldn’t just leave it in his sock drawer.

“I was going to propose to him in the place where we first met, y’know where, in the woods, and say something about being each other’s private property and— and this was supposed to be _our day_ —”

The worst part is, Stiles can picture how this day would have gone perfectly. How Stiles probably would have left Derek in bed and gone to get breakfast before his training session with Deaton. How he would have waited for Derek’s waffles at the diner down the street and overheard the news from the television or maybe from people passing him by, discussing the news in excited whispers. How he would have dropped the waffles on the counter as soon as he got home and pounced on Derek, bouncing up and down until Derek finally squinted up at him, a furrow between his brows—

Stiles gulps in a deep breath, his face hot and his eyes burning.

“It was going to be perfect,” he murmurs again, because Scott is staring at The Box in horror, his eyes wide and pained.

Scott doesn’t tell him that it’s been three years, and that Stiles should probably be over Derek by now. Doesn’t say that Derek’s long gone — off hunting monsters in Peru or wherever with his sister. Doesn’t say that he thought Stiles was _over_ this, because by now, they both know otherwise.

Scott doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his arms tight around Stiles’ ribcage and lets him bury his face in the crook of his neck, shushing and petting him until Stiles finally falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Initially, this was going to have a happy ending, but since it came about because I was having some hella bummed thoughts about my ex, I thought it seemed a bit too gratuitous and in the end, I couldn't bring myself to write it. I _might_ write a sequel if enough people ask about it, but I don't know. This was me getting my feelings out through my favorite medium, so I can't guarantee anything.


End file.
